


If You Want

by charcuterie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ben wants to be a dad and it makes him feel Feels, Domestic, Dreamsharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Rey and Ben have adorable Force-babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-12 17:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13552479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcuterie/pseuds/charcuterie
Summary: Ben remained frozen in place behind the door, the cold realization dawning that while this may be a dream, it wasn’t his dream. He must have wandered into the bond in his sleep, and stumbled into Rey as she slept. Apparently, Rey spent her nights dreaming of a home in which he had no part, of children he could never know, of love with a man who was nothing like him—relaxed and easy-going where he was prickly, kind and affectionate where he was gruff and hesitant. He felt sick.





	1. Chapter 1

Ben opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling dappled with golden sunlight. Muzzy and confused, he turned his head from side to side, taking stock of his surroundings.

Gone were his cold and sterile quarters on board a Star Destroyer; instead, he lay in a tousled bed in a simply furnished room, scattered with discarded clothing and personal oddments. In place of the darkness of space and infinite pinpricks of distant stars, a large window looked out on a verdant green forest, where birds sung lightly on what appeared to be a bright spring morning. In the distance, he heard not the mindless droning of life support systems, but the low murmur of a flowing river. He relaxed back into the blankets, peace stealing secretively into his bones.

 _This is a dream,_ he thought with a familiar sinking feeling. _I am dreaming._ He nestled back into the pillows. _At least it’s a good dream._

He was on the cusp of dozing back off when a loud _slam_ echoed in the hall outside. He jerked awake, taut and listening intently to…a child’s shriek? And the sound of feet pounding over floorboards...

“Hey!” Rey’s voice scolded. “I thought I told you it wasn’t time to get up, yet?”

Ben shot out of bed and crept to the door, nudging it open with two fingers and peaking around with one eye. Rey was standing in the kitchen ( _in an apron?_ ), sternly eyeing down a curly-haired girl of around two.

“Oh, let her get up already,” said a tall man with a smile in his voice, who walked into the scene and scooped the girl up onto his shoulders. She squealed with delight and buried her tiny fingers in his dark, wavy hair. “You know she won’t go back to sleep, anyway.” He stooped and planted a light kiss on the crown of Rey’s head.

Ben’s hand clenched around the edge of the door. A spasm of envy smarted sharply in his chest, followed by stormy fury. _Who is **he?**_

Rey sighed and rubbed the back of her wrist across her forehead. “I’m trying to get the day’s bread made, and you know how it is, with her underfoot…”

“Ohh, I think I can keep this one occupied,” the man said breezily, reaching up to tug the girl’s hair. She giggled infectiously and smacked his hands away. “Come on, little wookie. Your mother doesn’t want us around.”

Rey shook a spoon at his retreating back. “Don’t say things like that!” But there was no heat in her voice, and her face was soft as she watched them amble outside into the sweet-smelling air.

Ben remained frozen behind the door, the cold realization dawning that while this may be a dream, it wasn’t _his_ dream. He must have wandered into the bond in his sleep, and stumbled into Rey as she slept. Apparently, Rey spent her nights dreaming of a home in which he had no part, of children he could never know, of love with a man who was nothing like him—relaxed and easy-going where he was prickly, kind and affectionate where he was gruff and hesitant. He felt sick.

True, they’d never spoken of—of a future together, or really having _anything_ “together”, but in his mind, they’d reached a kind of understanding…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another shadow pass the door in the hall: a scrawny boy of eight or nine, with pale, angular features and a mop of dark hair. _Like his father’s,_ Ben thought bitterly.

“Mama?” The boy inquired timorously.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Rey answered distractedly from where she stood kneading dough on the counter.

“I know you wanted me to feed the animals this morning…”

Rey raised her head and leveled a sharp look at him. “Yes, I did,” she said leadingly. “But I think I can guess what you’re going to ask.”

The boy bit his lip and adjusted the large, familiar-looking box he had balanced on his hip.

“I woke up with an idea for a design and I’d like to get it down before it falls out of my head,” he burbled out quickly. He fidgeted with the box again and the lid unlatched, dumping brushes and inkwells all over the floor. One of them popped open and leaked fluorescent green ink across the tiles.

For a moment, they both stared in consternation at the mess slowly oozing across the floor. Then Rey burst out laughing, trying to hide her mouth with the back of her hand and smudging her nose with flour.

The boy leaned his head back and groaned, anger and upset knifing into the air around him. _"Seven kriffing hells!"_ He bellowed, prominent ears flushing red in embarrassment and frustration.

“Language,” Rey corrected, once again without heat, then said under her breath, “'Seven kriffing hells,' though--that's not bad, I'm going to remember that one.”

Ben would’ve laughed at her artless mothering had he not been transfixed by the sight of the box upturned on the floor. _That’s my calligraphy set,_ he thought dumbly, mouth working with emotion. _From when I was a boy. She’s never seen it. I never said a word to her about it. How would she…?_ His gaze fell searchingly onto the boy’s features. Ben lightly brushed his fingers over the shell of one ear, the hint of a frown between his brows.

A high, girlish shriek sounded outside, and Rey sighed, though her cheeks were still flushed with laughter. “You work on cleaning this up while I check on your sister,” she said, wiping her hands on a cloth and moving toward the door. As she brushed past the boy, she paused to rest her hand on his cheek. “It’s alright,” she said gently. She pressed a light kiss to his temple and went outside.

The boy began roughly tugging towels out of one of the drawers. His emotions—fretful, dark, _enraged_ —spilled into the room around him. “I can’t do anything,” he muttered. “I can’t do anything right.”

Ben, strangely moved by the boy’s self-loathing—and willing to come out of hiding now that Rey was safely away—stepped into the hall and walked toward the mess on the floor. He stooped over the fallen box, Adam’s apple bobbing with emotion as his hands moved over the familiar brushes and inks.

“Don’t worry about it, Dad,” the boy sighed, walking toward him. “I’ll fix it.”

Ben looked up sharply, but the boy’s face betrayed no confusion. “I…” Ben swallowed. He quickly glanced back down. “I was just checking that nothing was broken.” His head was spinning. _Dad?_

“It’s fine,” the boy grumbled. “It’s only the one bottle. I just made a mess again.” He bent over and began wiping up the ink. His dark, messy hair spilled across his eyes and he tried to shake it away, without success.

Ben reached out and brushed the boy’s hair back without thinking. “It’s alright,” he said gently, though confusion spun in his head. It seemed so natural, somehow, to let his fingers card affectionately through the shock of dark waves. “Messes are made. That’s just…life.” The boy nodded, distracted, and not interested in Ben’s musings.

“The ink was expensive,” the boy said a little apprehensively.

“We’ll make do,” Ben responded softly, though he couldn’t explain where the words had come from. The boy nodded and carried the box into the next room. Ben’s ears pricked at the sound of Rey’s footsteps approaching the door. He darted back into the dark of the hall, where he hovered anxiously, confused and unsure of himself.

“All cleaned up?” Rey inquired as she went back to the dough on the counter.

“As good as it’s going to get,” the boy said as he gathered his stack of fallen papers together. “So, do you think Dad can feed the animals instead, or…?”

“Yes, he’s already done it,” Rey answered wryly, not noticing the shadow of confusion on the boy’s face when he glanced at Ben’s silhouette in the hall. “Go ahead and hammer out your design, then.” Her hands were already busy. The boy shrugged and carried the rest of his things into the next room.

“Sweetheart?” Inquired the man, and Ben saw him poke his head back in the door, a flower chain skewed haphazardly across his forehead. “Look! She’s crowned me _Emperor of the House._ That makes you my _Empress_.”

Ben stared, open-mouthed, at the revelation of the man’s face.

“Oh, splendid,” Rey laughed, setting aside one ball of dough and starting on another. “Your crown becomes you. Pink really brings out your eyes,” her smile was saccharine as she batted her eyelashes at him.

The man grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. The man...was _him_. But his voice was so gentle, his movements so easy…he was _actually smiling,_ lips curling up ridiculously into his cheeks, eyes crinkling warmly at the edges.

No wonder he hadn’t recognized himself.

“Don’t be jealous,” Not-Ben said archly, stepping up into the house and moving up behind her at the counter. “And don’t worry. You’ll get a crown, too,” he murmured, ducking to press a kiss to her shoulder. She glanced at the door, where her daughter sat on the stoop, working diligently at flower stems.

“But I wanted mine in yellow,” she commented.

“Mmm. Nope,” Not-Ben hummed into the crook of her neck. “White. Only white, for you.”

Rey snorted. “Only white for _you_ ,” she sassed, flicking a handful of flour into his hair.

“ _Minx!_ ” He roared and dug his fingers into her sides. She whooped and smacked the side of his head, sending a cloud of flour dusting across the kitchen. She tried to squirm away from his tickling hands, but she was trapped against the counter. Armed with her spoon, she _did_ manage to turn around in his arms, only to find herself caught in a playful—but _bruising_ —kiss. She sighed and let her arms loop around his neck, the spoon dangling from her fingertips to tap gently against his shoulder blades. His hands dropped to her hips, pressing and kneading, and Rey rose to the challenge, wanting, demanding.

Meanwhile, Ben—eyes wide and jaw slack—felt a blush rising from sternum to hairline as he watched all pretense of _play_ taper off into something else, entirely.

With a deep breath through the nose, Not-Ben finally pulled away and pressed his forehead to hers.

“Vixen,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes, mouth twisting in an inside-joke grin. “ _You need a teacher_.”

“And you need a beating,” she smirked wickedly, fisting her hands in his hair and tugging it roughly enough that his head snapped to the side.

“ _Ow!_ ...Do it again.” She obliged, laughing throatily.

A loud groan sounded from the other room. “Would you guys _please_ stop being _weird?_ ” The boy groused. “Some of us are trying to work!”

“Yeah!” Echoed the girl outside, peeking in with a wrinkled nose. “ _W’rkin!_ ”

They were greeted only with more dirty laughter.

Off in the shadows, Ben was tingling and numb at the same time. His head panned from left to right, taking it in: his son (already conflicted at heart, but loved, _loved_ ), poring over drawings and designs; his daughter, romping in the yard, declaring kings and bestowing crowns; his…wife, kneading bread in a sunny spring kitchen; and himself, centered, happy, whole. The master of ceremonies in a life rich in simple things.

He had been wounded many times, and grievously, in his life. But this wound cut the deepest, cleaved him the most ruthlessly. This life that could have been and would never be. It was like a knife buried to the hilt in his chest. He felt his heart tear itself to pieces inside of him, warring desires devouring him whole. His emotions began to pour out of him in a wave before he could even try to get them under control.

In the kitchen, Rey’s head jerked up and her eyes snapped to his, her gaze hitting him like a heavy, leaden weight.

_“...Ben?”_

He felt himself ripped out of the dream.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments, kudos, and bookmarks! You guys make my day :)

With a ragged breath, Ben woke to air so cold, it hurt his face. After balmy spring breezes, bird song, and glowing sunlight, the contrast was like being doused in ice water.

When he opened his eyes, his ship's quarters were still nowhere in sight. Curious, he reached out and touched the wall next to the narrow bunk, and the rough-hewn stone was solid and real under his fingers, rising in an unbroken curve to a low ceiling. A scant few feet away, an opening carved out of the far wall looked out on a gloomy desert scape, lit by the greenish light of twin moons. Without glass or shutter, frigid air and the lonesome howling of wind poured through the window, and the merciless chill settled around his limbs like grave dirt.

He shook himself, began to rise to his elbows—then nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt his arm nudge into a firm, warm, dead weight. Looking down sharply, he froze to find Rey next to him, relaxed and breathing deeply, frowning slightly in her sleep.

It was clearly the dead of night in this godforsaken hole the Resistance had stuffed her into, and her blanket was far too light for the environment. He pulled the blanket up and tucked it around her, resolving to put a respectful distance between their bodies, but her warm weight tugging on the thin mattress next to him was a magnetic pull, drawing him in to curl on his side and tuck his head into the crook of her neck—though he was careful, as always, not to touch her skin. He closed his eyes, told himself she wouldn’t begrudge his body heat, and hoped she would remain asleep until the bond closed, never remembering his intrusion.

Rey jerked awake with a gasp.

Ben sighed.

Resigned, he pulled his head back on her pillow and looked at her. She lay on her back, dark eyes staring sightlessly above her.

“I saw you,” she whispered dully. “I saw you, in my dream.”

Ben winced and bit the inside of his lip, unsure how to respond to the embarrassment and vulnerability coloring her side of the bond. They lay in silence for several moments, thoughts wheeling, emotions bleeding into one another until he felt as though he would bleed out altogether if he didn’t speak the words burning at the forefront of his mind.

“You never told me you wanted children,” he said softly, watching her carefully.

“I never thought about it,” she confessed. She stared resolutely at the ceiling, tears beginning to leak from the corners of her eyes. “I never had the chance.” She released a shuddering breath that misted in the cold above her lips.

“Well…” Cautiously, he lifted his hand and rested it lightly on her sternum; she didn’t flinch, and he relaxed. He felt her heart straining painfully under his palm. He took a bracing breath. “… _Do_ you want children?”

He saw the corner of her mouth turn down and her eyes pucker as she fought to control her tears. “Yes. I do.”

He swallowed and stared at his fingertip running nervously back and forth across a freckle on her collarbone. It was a long time before he spoke. “… _My_ children?”

She covered her face with her hands, and when she spoke, her voice was muffled by her palms. “ _Our_ children,” she gasped. “Yes.”

Ben felt something like a head rush, as if he’d been running headlong up a mountainside and had stopped to catch his breath in air too thin to satisfy. His head swam as images washed over him. Golden panes of sunlight drifting through rooms filled with laughter and teasing; sunrise cups of caf; children clattering around the house—a daughter with Rey’s eyes, a son with his hair; herbs and flowers blooming together in window boxes; nights alive with Rey’s soft, even breathing and drowsy caresses. In his mind, those days stretched on and on until the inevitable day that they fell asleep in the Force, washed easily from one life into the next, without sadness, without pain. Together. Always.

His eyes brimmed over, mouth twisting bitterly. He withdrew his hand and rolled onto his back, drawing his arm across his eyes.

“Rey,” he said thickly. “That wasn’t me.” It tore him apart to say it, but he’d never lied to her before, and he wouldn’t start now. “The man in your dream. That isn’t who I am. That was…a stranger. A stranger with my face.”

She swung her head over on the pillow, frowning deeply in confusion. “What?”

He turned his head to the wall. He couldn’t stand to meet her eyes.

She reached over, took him roughly by the jaw, and dragged his face back over. “ _What?_ ” She repeated, almost angrily. “Look at me.”

He wrenched away from her and pushed her hand off impatiently. Now wasn’t the time for her naivete, _not now_ , not when his heart was splintered and crackling hotly with pain.

“Ben Solo,” she said sternly. “Look at me.” A pause. “Don’t make me get the spoon.”

A startled bark of laughter huffed out of him and caught him by surprise. The tension that had been trembling through his frame abruptly evaporated. Face still half-hidden under his forearm, he finally obeyed her command and looked at her, where she lay curled on her side with a soft, knowing smile.

“Are you…” he blinked, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Are you _threatening_ me?”

“I’m not above a little coercion,” she intoned archly. “When necessary.”

Hesitantly, he lifted his other hand and dragged the back of one finger down her cheek. “Some Jedi _you_ are,” he said softly.

“And some Sith you turned out to be,” she countered, quirking a brow at his gentle touch.

“I never said I was a Sith,” he replied absently. His hand came to rest at the side of her neck, where he toyed with the fine strands of hair that curled around her ears.

“And I never said I was a Jedi.”

It felt as though a spell had fallen that the slightest move or word could break; her eyes drifted closed, her warm breath brushed gently over his wrist, and he felt himself hanging on to each passing second even as it slipped through his fingers.

“What are we, Rey?” He finally asked.

For a moment he thought she had fallen back asleep, but then her lips parted in a sigh. “Something new, I think,” she whispered, eyes cracking open to gaze distractedly into the middle distance. “Something we get to decide for ourselves.” She met his eyes. “That’s how I know that _you are_ the man in my dream, Ben. You can be that man. If you want.”

He gazed back at her intently, conflict throbbing in the back of his mind. “What do _you_ want?” He challenged, eyes narrowing shrewdly.

Her eyes found his with the click of magnets locking into place. She blinked slowly, cat-like, and whispered: “I think you know.”


	3. Chapter 3

_I think you know._

Her words curled through the darkness between them with a latent, secretive heat. Ben watched intently as Rey slowly raised her hand; watched as her fingers entwined with his where they lay against her neck; watched as she tugged his hand to her lips and pressed a feather-light kiss to the back of his knuckles.

The breath he hadn’t known he was holding _whooshed_ out of him in a rush, and before he even paused to consider his options, he’d already turned and sprung out of bed.

Itching with restless energy, he attempted to pace. The ceiling was so low he couldn’t stand to his full height, and the room was so small that he couldn’t get three strides in before having to turn around again. So really, he didn’t _pace_ so much hunch agitatedly in the center of the room, darting this way and that like a caged animal.

Meanwhile, Rey had pressed her face into the bedclothes, shoulders shuddering with laughter.

“Does something amuse you?” He inquired testily, irritated that she could be so relaxed when he felt like crawling out of his skin.

She rolled onto her back, then, and laughed openly, one nerveless arm trailing off the side of the bunk.  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said breathlessly, pressing her other hand to her aching stomach. She turned a sly, lazy grin on him. “I’m just…enjoying the view?”

He blinked and looked down at himself for the first time. _Ah, kriff._

“Well, _keep_ enjoying it, then,” he snarked, ears burning. “Honestly, you’re lucky I’m even wearing these." He gestured irritably at the undershorts hanging precariously off his hips. “I normally sleep in the _nude_.” He allowed himself a smug smile as a fierce blush heated her neck and cheeks. He turned his back and leaned his elbows against the bottom of the window.

In the sulky silence that followed, he looked out over the barren planet shivering under its sickly moons, and felt his frustration deepen into depression. “This place is hideous,” he said bluntly. Behind him, Rey snorted.

“You’re not wrong,” she sighed, shifting her long, bare legs and putting her hands behind her head, gooseflesh rising on her golden skin wherever it met the chill in the air.

“I’m never wrong.” A pillow _thwapped_ into the back of his head.

“Ow,” he said flatly, stooping. He tugged the lumpy thing back up into his hands and stalked back to where she lay stretched out on the bunk.

He leaned over her, wrapping one large hand under the tender nape of her neck and lifting gently. He didn’t miss the catch in her breath or the way her eyes darkened as he lowered his face to hers…

…And slipped the pillow under her head, pressing her down to rest against it, and carefully snugging the rumpled blanket more tightly around her shoulders. He regarded her pensively.

“Aren’t you cold?” She asked a little breathlessly.

“Freezing,” he responded, eyes unwavering.

“Don’t you want to…” She suggested, one hand reaching out to tug at him, ever so gently.

“No.”

She huffed petulantly. “You’re going to die of hypothermia. And stubbornness.”

“We both know that between the two of us, _you_ would be the first to die of stubbornness.” He rolled his eyes and leaned back on his hands. “I think I’ll survive.” Unbidden, a memory of Starkiller base filtered over the bond: an image of Ben prostrate and bleeding out into the snow, marred face a mixture of awe and resignation as he watched Rey speed away, back to the Falcon.

Her thumb grazed gently across the burn scar on his left shoulder. “I would apologize,” she murmured, “But frankly, you had it coming.”

“Have I ever complained?” He asked, voice wryly affectionate.

“No,” she conceded. “As I'm sure you're aware of how the scars add to your villainous mystique.”

His head rolled to the side and he glared at her with skeptical, half-lidded eyes. “Yes, in between rounds of bacta and med droids, I was inwardly _congratulating_ myself on...” he trailed off, focusing on the strange feeling sneaking across the bond.

“You _like_ them,” he said in surprise. “You _like_ the scars.”

Hesitantly, she opened up a memory to him: crawling through the wrecks in the starship graveyard, unearthing unknown rooms, finding new haul…and marking her way with long, jagged knife marks. He frowned a little in confusion. She shrugged. “To help me find my way back,” she explained simply. “And…to claim what’s _mine_.” With one fingertip, she traced the scar on his face from forehead to jawline.

“How presumptuous of you,” he murmured. Her thumb lazily grazed his lower lip. “I’m more than a bit of scrap to barter off at your convenience.”

“Have you ever complained?” She inquired, voice dark with sweetness as she tossed his words back to him. He swallowed, mouth working itself around a litany of unspoken words.

“Rey,” he said finally, voice hoarse, “ _Tell me what you want_.”

She dodged his eyes. “I feel like we’ve been over this—”

“ _Say it_.”

With that single phrase, and all the memories it carried, he felt the dam inside her break, all the false bravado suddenly worn through and burned out, and an overwhelming flood of desperation and loneliness and longing came flooding over the bond.

“I want _you_ , Ben!” She wailed angrily. Her hand, once so tender at the side of his face, now fisted itself in the hair at the base of his neck. Her emotions ran red with frustration. “I want this war to _end!_ I want _peace_ , and a _home_ , and a _family_ —a place where I—where _we_ — _belong!_ _Together!!_ I want—”

He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and enveloped her mouth with his, inhaling whatever words she had left to say. She gasped into his mouth and he swallowed that, too. Her jaw went slack with surprise and he pressed his advantage, lightly running his tongue over the seam of her lips until she shyly met it with the tip her own—and then it was his turn to lose his breath.

She smiled into his kiss and he fell apart. It was as if she were budding under his lips, blooming between his hands; as if he had buried his face in the blossom of some strange, exotic flower and lost himself in it. Vaguely, he felt her sit up, felt her press against him, felt her breath falling heavily on his cheek, felt her tighten her arms around his shoulders and run her fingers through his hair, felt her sink her teeth into his lower lip and _tug_ —felt himself wrap around her hungrily, drinking her in, _starving_ —felt his hands wandering, pressing, pulling, _begging_ —felt clothing shifting, blankets moving—

Felt a sudden gust of bone-chilling wind sluice through the window, dousing them in frigid air—

And they yanked apart, Rey cursing roundly and Ben crossly casting about for a blanket.


	4. Chapter 4

Rey gasped and curled into his neck, using him as a shield against the icy draft.

“Kriffing hell, Rey, you need to get _off this planet_!” He gritted and yanked the blanket around the both of them, teeth clacking together.

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know, you ass!” She snapped, pulling away and shoving his chest, all of her tenderness from seconds before drawing back and hardening into something red and sharp and unforgiving. “If only I _could_ leave it without being hunted down by _your_ — _bloody_ — _army!_ ” She punctuated each word with a vicious whack to the slab of his arm. The meaty _smack_ each one made in the quiet room stoked his growing agitation.

“Fuck’s sake, Rey—” he grumbled, batting away her hands, “I wouldn’t send anyone to _hunt you down_ , as you call it—”

“That’s not the point, though, is it?” Her emotions were lurching erratically from all the wild highs and lows of the night, and he felt the strain under her voice like a cord pulled taut to the breaking point. He jumped as she abruptly pulled away from him, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, cold air pouring in between them.

“The _point_ is,” she continued, tears starting again in her eyes, “That it doesn’t _matter_ what I want.” The tears began to slip down her face. “And we _can’t_ have those things, that life. It’s a dream. _This_ is the life we have, and it’s a bloody mess!”

The Force rolled fitfully in between them like waves in a storm. His jaw worked, hurt spiking into anger, but he carefully checked his rage. He keenly felt the black despair roiling under the heat of her words: the despair of a child who scrabbled for survival year after year, faithfully waiting, doing all the right things, making all the correct choices, doing the best she could with the hand she’d been dealt, for nothing. Those countless hours of steadfast loyalty and hope had ultimately been of no account in the face of her abandonment.

He felt her agony suddenly crest like a red wave in his head, and she jerked to her feet, whipping the blanket away from him and pulling it up around her ears as if to block it all out.

He watched her carefully, desperately wanting to reach out, to soothe, to comfort, and having no idea how. “We are what our choices make us,” he said eventually. “We can choose that life, and…un-choose this one.”

She shot him a venomous look over her shoulder. Ever practical, she was clearly in a less philosophical frame of mind. “Oh, it’s that simple, is it?” She inquired icily. “And where do you propose we plant this little family, hm? In the First Order’s back yard? It’ll be just _lovely_ watching our _children_ taken for _stormtroopers!_ ”

“Would you prefer it grow within the poverty, corruption, and disorder of the New Republic?” He asked, voice prickly with false sweetness. “I’d just _love_ to see our children starve to death under the likes of Unkar Plutt!” _Ah, kriff._ He regretted the words the second they left his mouth.

“ _Switch off, Ben!_ ” She spat, tearing the blanket from around her shoulders and ineffectively whipping it at his face and chest. “How _dare_ you suggest that I would _ever_ sell my—”

“I’m sorry,” he said rapidly, standing up and trying to catch the fists that she was throwing at him in (admittedly justified) rage. “I’m sorry. _I’m sorry._ Just— _stop it, Rey!_ —stop pretending the New Republic is the only answer!”

She groaned and wrapped her arms around her head, fingers tangled in her hair.

He rested his hand hesitantly on the back of her neck as she tried to sob silently into the crooks of her elbows. “Our answer is out there. We just have to…find it.”

“I can’t do this,” she shuddered. “ _I can’t do this anymore…_ I’m being torn apart…I can’t _do_ this!”

He felt the faint hysteria staining her words, the product of exhaustion and near-constant confusion. The bond had intensified in the past weeks, dreams and reality sifting together and drifting apart maddeningly on an almost moment-to-moment basis, infecting them with ever-deepening dysphoria. It was excruciating.

With a sigh, he pulled her into his chest and leaned his chin on top of her head, trying desperately to reason, to _think_.

 _Choice_ was a foreign concept to him. From infancy, he had been burdened with the weight of legacy, and believed himself doomed by fate to slave under the yoke of the past. When his chance came, he broke it to pieces and tossed it aside. But these last weeks and months had revealed an entirely new kind of burden: the burden of freedom, of self-determination. Without a clear path imposed on him, without some unattainable ideal to labor under, he found that he didn’t want any of it at all…a legacy, a path, an ideal, none of it. That admission scared him nearly as much as the prospect of failure.

 _Let the past die,_ he thought. _But…what will spring up in its place?_

Beneath him, Rey sighed, the tension finally draining out of her as she wrapped her arms around him. She nuzzled into his warmth, laying her hand against his chest comfortably.

Unbidden and surreal, almost-memories began to flow between them through the bond, too quickly to be grasped, leaving in their wake only faint silhouettes of things like _family, peace, balance, home, belonging, love._ In that moment, he felt the weight of their separation like an anchor dragging them down somewhere deep and dark, to drown apart from one another. He longed desperately to cut it off, to leave it behind forever, to escape to that light hovering elusively on the surface, whatever the cost.

Coming back to himself, his voice was thick as he whispered into her hair: “We can have that dream. I can give you that. We can give that to each other.” He swallowed again past the throbbing lump in his throat and traced his fingers over the back of her neck. “If you want.”

She went still in his arms. “What about…the galaxy?”

“Fuck the galaxy.”

“And the First Order?”

“Fuck them, too.”

“And the Resistance?”

“What do _you_ think? Fuck _all_ of it, Rey.”

Her hand slid down over his ribs and came to rest, her fingertips drumming thoughtfully. He felt her mind teetering back and forth between emotions, options, goals.

“The prospect is not… _entirely_ without appeal,” she finally admitted. She pulled away from him and raised her face. “But you know it’s not that simple,” she whispered like a secret into the air between them.

“I never said it was simple,” he observed softly, focusing on the way her teeth worried her lower lip. “But…I do think the choice is ours. We _can_ just—be together.”

She raised her eyes, sad and skeptical, and a little affectionate. “You really must be the Mad King they say you are,” she said with a little half-grin. “If you really think we can throw a war—and a galaxy—and a few thousand years of history—to the wind, and start fresh.”

“I may be mad,” he said, a slow, small smile growing on his face, “But I’m not wrong.”

“You never think you are.”

“I never am.” He lightly fisted his hand in the hair at the back of her neck and tugged her mouth to his. Her lips were already forming an argument, and he was already gnawing it away. She sighed and slung her arms over his shoulders, letting herself fall slack and warm and easy in his arms.

She pulled away and rested her forehead against his chin. “We’ll find a way,” she whispered.

“We will,” he answered, and held her tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi to me on my Tumblr, chimichangasaredelicious!


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